Notes: I'm not too sure whether I like this one or not. I do, otherwise I wouldn't be posting it, but it's a bit... all over the place, I think. Confusing. It has a backstory that isn't explained here at all, which leads to it being a bit WTH-ish. In any case, enjoy. Feedback is lovely.
Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride. Hell, I don't even own the third book. (I haven't read it, either, for that matter.)
The photograph is worn and frayed at the edges and she thinks she might cry.
It's absurd, she knows. She has no reason to cry — she can see them sleeping beside her, snoring as they always do. They are leaning on each other; she can see damp spots on their shirts from where someone has drooled. She sees, and she smiles, and she does not join in.
She thinks she might cry.
She shouldn't, she knows. Why should she cry when they are right there? Nothing has changed. They are still on the run, still loud and loving and (mostly) happy. But she thinks, she knows, that something is missing. She just doesn't know what.
The photograph flaps in the wind, threatening to split into a million tiny pieces.
She almost wishes it would.
- - -
In the morning, it is the same routine. She kicks his side with worrying enthusiasm, never allowing herself to think as she does so. She knows that if she thinks, she will want to cry. She doesn't like crying.
Eventually, he sits up. His dark gaze is piercing, and she wants to run away. She wants to cover her body with her hands, because with him around, she is constantly exposed. She thinks he knows this, too. She thinks he takes advantage of it.
He asks what's for breakfast, and she replies gourmet rat, of course, and they sit and wait for everyone to untangle themselves. Small talk has no place here.
She looks at him, and he looks back, and she turns away.
She wants to cry. If she keeps looking, she's certain that she will.
- - -
It has been three hours, forty-two minutes and one lifetime since breakfast. She knows. She's been counting.
She looks below her. The landscape is flat and yellow and they are miles from civilisation. She wants to eat normal food, for once, but she can't. She can't let them down like that. They like wild animals, she knows. She can tell by the look of relief on their faces when they sink their teeth into the meat.
She asks if anyone wants food. She asks the girl beside her specifically, because she knows that she will start complaining any time now.
There's a forest down there, she says. The girl doesn't look at her when she replies. It's the usual, she knows, a standard response, each and every one of them different than the last. She knows this, and she refuses to wince.
In the end, they find a dumpster. It's fitting, she thinks, that this is what they resort to. It's fitting for no particular reason, but it's fitting all the same. This is them, and she never liked restaurants, anyway.
- - -
She smiles.
They are in the country; in a place she has mentally dubbed Lordknowswhere. Lordknowswhere is sunny and bright and makes her armpits damp, but she does not worry about stains on her shirt. She pushes greasy hair out of her eyes and grins because she can, and because she wants to, and because very occasionally, the country allows her to be free.
She reclines against the trunk of a leafless tree, and doesn't think.
Eventually, she sleeps.
- - -
She is awoken by shouts.
She would be a bit more frantic, she knows, if there had been screams. But they weren't, there were only shouts, and they are still going on. Two boys are running around the field, bare-foot and bare-chest, trading insults at the top of their lungs.
Well, she thinks. The grass is still there and the tree isn't aflame, so everything is well. She's of a mind to return to her slumber when the boys on the field stop shouting and collapse.
She can see, from hundreds of metres away, a blond head rise. It looks like the rise of a peculiar sunset, almost, if the sun were a boy with no shirt, no shoes and baggy shorts.
The blond head is yanked down by a pale hand, and lost amongst the long, dry grass. All is quiet but for the distant chirping of birds.
Two minutes later, the boys are up again, tall and lanky and blond. They run around and yell and cackle and trip over themselves and each other, but its okay, she knows, because why wouldn't it be?
- - -
The blonde girl stares at her, and she thinks she feels a shiver run through her body.
It is months after Lordknowswhere, or maybe years. They all look older now, but maybe it is the lack of sunshine that makes this so. The blonde girl reaches her nose easily, now, and it scares her.
They are in a small town, and it is winter. The snow falls in blankets overnight and in the morning they throw it at each other. Shirts are soaked and backs are frozen, and by lunch every new day there is always a new snowman in the park.
The girl's eyes are large and blue and round. They are large and blue and round and they are staring at her, and she feels her resolve shatter.
The lump of snow is sculpted into a masterpiece by evening. A new blanket of snow is already falling by then, white and frozen and perfect, ruining their masterpiece with its beauty. They sit and watch as it loses its features, and when they finally stand, the bottoms of their pants are soaked through and they are covered with a fine layer of snow.
Can we, the smaller girl pleads, and she stares into those eyes and agrees.
The next lump of snow is larger and more beautiful by far.
It has four legs, a long nose, and, she thinks, it would be intensely hyperactive if it were not made of snow.
She laughs into the cold air, but eventually their eyes meet, and the laughter fades away.
- - -
The sky is blue and the grass is green and the trees tower tall overheard. They are young, and they are happy, and when they grin you can see tongue through the gaps in their teeth. They are standing in a clearing, she knows, with threes in the background that are ominous and menacing. They have climbed them many times before.
The photograph is worn and frayed at the edges, and she cries.